Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice,

Heav'n grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price!

THE COCKFIGHTER'S GARLAND.1

MUSE-Hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,

Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)

If

For proof to man, what man may prove,
grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below;

Gentle he was, if gentle birth

Could make him such, and he had worth,
If wealth could worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest,
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind,
Illustrious in the eyes of those,
Whose gay society he chose,
Possess'd of ev'ry kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red,
With bushy locks his well-dress'd head
Wing'd broad on either side.
The mossy rose-bud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As lux'ry could provide.

1 "I have composed a small poem on a hideous subject, with which the 'Gentleman's Magazine' for April furnished me: it is, nevertheless, a true one, hideous as it is. Mr. Bull and Mr. Greathead, who both have seen the man on whose death it is written, know that he died as there related." (June 6, 1789.)

Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;
A tyrant entertain'd

With barb'rous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight
"Twixt birds to battle train'd.

One feather'd champion he possess'd,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced, at last, when, on a day,
He push'd him to the desp'rate fray,
His courage droop'd, he fled.
The master storm'd, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,

He doom'd his fav'rite dead.

He seiz'd him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,
And, bring me cord, he cried;
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird
Alive and struggling tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil,
And all the terrors of the tale

That can be, shall be, sunk-
Led by the suff'rer's screams aright,
His shock'd companions view the sight
And him with fury drunk.

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate:
He deaf to pity's call
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,
Death menacing on all.

But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch'd his clam'rous throat,
And heav'n and earth defied,

Big with a curse too closely pent
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgments of the skies,
But judgments plain as this,

That, sent for man's instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,

"Tis hard to read amiss.

ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY FROM SEA-BATHING, IN THE YEAR 1789.

O SOV'REIGN of an isle renown'd
For undisputed sway
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound

Her navies wing their way;

With juster claim she builds at length

Her empire on the sea,

And well may boast the waves her strength,
Which strength restored to Thee.

A TALE,

FOUNDED ON A FACT WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779.

WHERE Humber pours his rich commercial stream,
There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme.
In subterraneous caves his life he led,

Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread.
When on a day, emerging from the deep,

A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!)
The wages of his weekly toil he bore

To buy a cock-whose blood might win him more;
As if the noblest of the feather'd kind

Were but for battle and for death design'd;
As if the consecrated hours were meant
For sport, to minds on cruelty intent;

It chanced, (such chances Providence obey)
He met a fellow-lab'rer on the way,

Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed;
But now the savage temper was reclaim'd.
Persuasion on his lips had taken place;

For all plead well who plead the cause of grace.

His iron-heart with Scripture he assail'd,
Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd.
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew,
Swift, as the light'ning-glimpse, the arrow flew.
He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around,
To find a worse than he; but none he found.
He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel;
Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal.
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize.
That holy day was wash'd with many a tear,
Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear.
The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine
Learn'd, by his alter'd speech-the change divine!
Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the day
Was nigh, when he would swear as fast as they.
"No (said the penitent): such words shall share
This breath no more; devoted now to pray'r.
O! if Thou seest, (thine eye the future sees)
That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these;
Now strike me to the ground, on which I kneel,
Ere yet this heart relapses into steel;

Now take me to that Heaven I once defied,
Thy presence, thy embrace!" He spoke, and died!

STANZAS

SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF

ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON, ANNO DOMINI 1787.

Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres.

HORACE.

Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door
Of royal halls and hovels of the poor.

WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave

All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?

Did famine or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears?

one.'

No; these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waives his claim.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are marked to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,

The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,
I passed, and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truth
With which I charge my page!
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.

No present health can health insure
For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it oft can cure,
Can always balk the tomb.

And oh that humble as my lot,

And scorned as is my strain,

These truths, though known, too much forgot,

I

may not teach in vain.

So prays your Clerk with all his heart,

And, ere he quits the pen,

·Begs you for once to take his part,

And answer all-Amen!!

་

1 "On Monday morning last, Sam brought me word that there was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with me. I ordered him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made its appearance, and being desired to sit, spoke as follows:- Sir, I am clerk of the Parish of All Saints, in Northampton; brother of Mr. C., the upholsterer. It is customary for the person in my office to annex to a bill of mortality, which he publishes at Christmas, a copy of verses. You will do me a great favour, sir, if you would furnish me with To this I replied, Mr. C., you have several men of genius in your town, why have you not applied to some of them? There is a namesake of yours in particular, C., the statuary, who, everybody knows, is a firstrate maker of verses. He surely is the man of all the world for your purpose.' Alas, sir! I have heretofore borrowed help from him, but he is a gentleman of so much reading, that the people of our town cannot understand him.' I confess to you I felt all the force of the compliment." (To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 27, 1787.)